


Song For A Guilty Sadist

by WashboardRibsAndBrokenCribs



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Animus Island, Animus Shenanigans, Biting, Blood, Blood As Lube, Blood Kink, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Consensual Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Genital Torture, Hidden Blades, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Reluctant Sadist, Spanking, Spit As Lube, Spit Kink, Stabbing, Under-negotiated Kink, Virtual Reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:54:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25388614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WashboardRibsAndBrokenCribs/pseuds/WashboardRibsAndBrokenCribs
Summary: Sweaty fingers push down on your throat / you say you like it roughBut it's hard to think I do this out of loveAnd from my own submissive pleasure / I want to do just as you wishBut I slap your face too lightly / when you ask me to make fists-Clay has a request for Desmond. Things escalate quickly
Relationships: Clay Kaczmarek | Subject 16/Desmond Miles
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Song For A Guilty Sadist

**Author's Note:**

> problem: claysmond is my otp, i wanna write shit about them, but my sadism is acting up.   
> solution? combine them. clay being an unhinged masochist is vurry good. 
> 
> feat. mind melding but not in a vulcan way. also just take a good look at the tags before reading, fic makes mention of clay's fate
> 
> ~~i know desmond didnt have a hidden blade on the island, but ssh. it's here for sexy times.~~

It was pretty comforting to know how, despite being under the threat of his brain finally melting, leaving the memories of his ancestors left him as disoriented as ever. Some things never changed. Every time he exited the synch-nexus, he had to take a moment to gather himself, to try remember what his fucking name was. 

“Desmond.”

It helped having someone there to yell it at him. 

“Huh?” he grunted, blinking blearily at the washed out blue landscape of the island. Sixteen sat in his usual spot, waiting for him expectantly, except... something was different. He seemed jittery, tapping his fingers against each other with a nervous energy. “What?”

“I... I wanted to ask for your help with something.”

“I'm not taking you back in my head.” There was hardly enough room for himself in there. 

“No, I know, it's not that, it's... it's something in here. I figure, y'know, if you aren't gonna help me out _that way,_ maybe you could do this for me.” 

Desmond looked at him skeptically. “What is it?”

He glitched forward, a move that still left Desmond unnerved. A hand shot out and grabbed his arm, far harder than perhaps necessary. It was a grip out of desperation, though, not anger. 

“Hit me.”

That made Desmond laugh a little. “What?”

“Hit. Me.” Sixteen tugged on his arm now—urgent, wanting. 

“Why?” Desmond didn't have it in him to pull away, though. 

“I... I just...” blue eyes met brown. Pain, desperation, need. “I need... to feel something again.”

“Why do you need to be... _hurt_ in order to feel something? You sure there aren't other ways?”

“Desmond, _please—_ ” his voice cracked. Fuck, that hurt. 

Goddammit. “...Where?” He didn't know why he was even considering this—he couldn't say no to Sixteen. Maybe it was out of pity, even though Desmond imagined he'd hate to be pitied. 

A slight smile. A change in demeanor. Even the hand on his arm felt different now. “The face.” 

“Sixteen—”

“My name's Clay.” A smirk.

“If you're not careful, I'm gonna hit you just because I feel like it.” 

That lightened the mood a bit, but there was still a strange energy hanging in the air. 

“Just... once. I'll tell you why afterwards—promise.” 

Desmond would swear he was being set up, like this is a fucking prank show or something. 

“You're sure?” he finally pulled his arm away, indicating that if Six— _Clay_ was serious about this, then so was he. 

Clay just smiled at him. A smile that said 'thank you.' It was fucking odd. 

His eyes fell shut. Desmond took a step back to wind himself up for this. He really couldn't believe he was going to do it. But if something bad happened—it wasn't real, for one, and for two; he had asked him to do it, there was no one to blame but himself. 

He swung. Made direct contact with Clay's face. Heard the crack, felt the skin give and blood splatter onto his fist, watched as Clay collapsed. For a simulation it felt way too fucking real. 

He immediately regretted it. He was already preparing a long string of “jesus christ,” “i'm so sorry,” “are you okay?” as he leaned to help Clay back up, but...

He lifted a shaky hand to his broken nose, fingers coming back bloody. His eyes were wide, his smile delighted, he looked unhinged—then he directed that gaze at Desmond, and it was terrifying. 

He lunged at him. 

Didn't knock him down, but it didn't seem like he was meaning to. Maybe he just wanted to fight back—

Then Clay kissed him, and Desmond was more confused than before. 

The kiss didn't last long, and it's only when they parted that Desmond began to understand. The excitement behind his eyes, the fact that he was asking for this at all, the lingering touches and the fucking kissing—

“...You're into this,” he concluded. Clay nodded excitedly. 

Fuck, that made a lot more sense. 

“Jesus Christ—why didn't you just ask?” That definitely would've made it a little less terrifying for him, at the very least. 

Clay laughed, a mad desperate sound that reminded him that oh right, this guy isn't entirely all there. “Where's the fun in that?” 

He kissed him again, and this time Desmond was a lot more receptive. He kissed back, trying to ignore the lingering smell and taste of blood between them. It still felt too real, but he decided to focus on the more desirable parts of too-realness—like the way Clay was desperately rutting up against him. 

“God, _Clay—_ ” he hissed as Clay reached around to squeeze his ass, while leaving blood-stained kisses down his neck. 

“I like the way you say my name,” he purred, “Y'wanna keep going?”

“Depends—are you gonna ask me to hit you again?”

“Mmh, yeah,” he didn't even try to hide his smirk. 

“Fine—fuck it.” The smug bastard already knew Desmond wouldn't be able to say no now. 

Clay really did view pain differently than him—not just because he asked to be fucking _decked_ in the face, but also by the way he purposely stumbled and fell, dragging Desmond to the ground with him. 

They landed on one of the toppled stone slabs, and Desmond landed on top of him, trying to catch himself as much as he could. He ended up straddling his waist, hands on either side of Clay's head to hold himself up. He grimaced at the rocks digging into his hands—he still got the impulse to check himself for any injures, apparently warranted as he saw small cuts and gravel embedded on his palm. 

He didn't have time to dwell on it, though, wiping his hands off on his jeans as Clay was simultaneously grinding up against him and pulling him down into another kiss. Desmond gladly took them both, and for a moment he got to lose himself in the sensations. The heat between them, the delicious grind of their hips, the hungry kisses and the way Clay whimpered when he sucked on his tongue. 

He didn't think twice about where their hands wandered; through hair, under clothes, grasping at anything to pull each other closer. It was a little awkward when Clay grabbed Desmond's hand, though, threading their fingers together in a weirdly tender embrace, until... 

There was a quick flex, Clay bending Desmond's hand back to trigger the hidden blade on his arm. The blade shot out with a click, and embedded the tip into Clay's wrist. 

Desmond didn't realize what happened until Clay screamed. 

He tried to pull back, remove the blade, but before he could Clay stopped him. 

“N-no!” he whimpered, “Don't, not yet...” 

He was sweating, hand trembling as blood dripped down his arm. It really made Desmond uneasy, despite Clay's insistence that it was alright and that he wanted it—he did go out of his way to do this to himself, after all. 

“D... deeper,” he finally gasped, his free hand fisting in Desmond's hoodie. “ _Please, Desmond._ ” 

He chanced pressing it in deeper, the blood flowing heavier in time with Clay's pulse. The cry it pulled from him was ragged and loud. His free hand ran through his own hair and tugged, biting his lip until it trembled. 

“M-more, just...” he grabbed Desmond's hand to guide the blade, pressing it deeper, and then jerking it to the side, ripping through his wrist and leaving a ragged edge as blood starting pumping out even harder. 

Desmond couldn't shake the feeling that this was familiar—of course it was, it was how Clay had left him a message back in Abstergo. It was... concerning, to say the least, how he had inflicted the same wound on himself now and seemed to be enjoying it. Did he enjoy it when...? 

He didn't exactly know how to bring it up, nor if he should. It seemed like a dick move, to say the least, to bring up someone's suicide the next time you meet up with them. . 

Clay pulled his wrist to his mouth. Desmond thought maybe it was to quell the bleeding, but he could see, through the deluges of blood, that he was instead biting down on the rough edge of the wound. 

Apparently that did it for him, too, as he moaned desperately, arching up to grind his cock up against Desmond's ass. 

Right. That. 

Part of him wanted to keep the hidden blade out of Clay's reach now, so he shifted slightly, grasping Clay's hard cock through his jeans in a move that earned him a needy whine. 

“Just to make sure—you're still into _this,_ right?” he gave a quick squeeze for emphasis. 

Clay snorted, “What, me humping your leg didn't prove anything? ”

Desmond tilted his head to concede. “Just checking.”

It was kind of amusing how Clay watched him, wide-eyed and curious, as Desmond pulled his cock out, kissing the tip before unbearably slowly licking up the length, their eyes locked the entire time. 

“Oh my god,” Clay broke the gaze when throwing his head back, arching up into the touch, thrusting ineptly into his fist. Desmond watched, amused, before pinning his hip down with his free hand and returning, taking him in slowly. Halfway, then fully, and god this was something that he'd missed: the heaviness of a cock sitting on his tongue, the taste of skin and sweat, the way it always left him drooling. 

The noises it drew from Clay weren't half bad either. 

“Desmond...” Clay whined his name, loud and long and needy. “I need—just a little...”

_Oh god,_ what now?

Desmond glanced up just long enough to make eye contact, to see the wild look in his eyes and the mad smile he had. “Mmh... bite...”

He let the cock fall from his lips and sighed. “Clay...”

“ _Please,_ Desmond—! I'm so close...”

God damn that was a good sound, though. Desmond really couldn't say no to the guy. 

Tentatively he let his teeth drag along the shaft, cringing internally in secondhand sympathy. Clay let slip a high-pitched whine, a mutter of “Yes—” somewhere in the middle of it. Desmond could feel the subtle tremble throughout his body, like he was on the verge of exploding. He chanced another bite, dragging it upwards, teeth catching on the crown of the head. 

That did it. Clay screamed, part of it broken by the way he glitched, as though he'd lost control of himself. He had one good scream in him, the rest tumbling out as whimpers and sobs as he weakly rocked against Desmond's fist, still working him. 

He took it all in his mouth, swallowing it down without a second thought. In hindsight, he wished he hadn't—he wanted to savor it, wanted to really taste, and wondered if that was what Clay had tasted like when he was alive. 

His hand tugged at his cock a little longer than necessary. But Clay didn't tell him to stop, only whining pathetically as the stimulation grew to be too much. Chalk that up to another weird thing he was into. 

Desmond had his eyes closed for most of it, loving being in the moment. When he finally opened them, it was in shock, at the sight of Clay underneath him. 

He was a state. Blood smeared down his arm and both hands, down his chin and across his cheeks, in his teeth and somehow ending up in his hair. It was horrific. That same intense stare now twice as alarming, even if it was dimmed from the haze brought on from his orgasm. 

He shot upright, startling Desmond, hands grasping for him and pulling him into a kiss so hard their teeth clicked together. Clay seemed to be trying to taste himself, but frankly he didn't know how that'd be possible: all he could taste and smell and feel was blood, so much blood. 

He wanted to be concerned, or freaked out, but truth be told... there was something enticing about the way Clay loved it, how it seemed to engulf everything they did. Every touch, every kiss, everywhere he looked it was nothing but congealing, blackening blood.

They pulled apart, panting. Blood that was turning tacky and dry became wet again from the fervor of their kissing. 

As much as Desmond was starting to come around to this idea, he still pulled his hand away when Clay reached for the blade again. 

“I... Clay, I really don't want you touching this right now.” 

Clay grinned at that, a wicked smile made extra cruel by teeth stained pink. “Why not? It's dirty...” 

Against his better judgment, he gave in, allowing Clay to trigger the mechanism again, thankfully not aiming it at himself this time. Instead he guided it, and Desmond's hand, to his mouth. 

It was entrancing, the way his tongue moved. Gently, incredibly gently, cautious as he ran it along the edge knowing that if he just pressed a little harder he'd be bleeding again. He kissed the tip, and even took it into his mouth, letting it hit the roof before pulling it back out. It was so incredibly close to the edges of his mouth, frankly it surprised Desmond that he didn't cut himself once. 

He released it and smiled expectantly at Desmond, who just stared at him in stunned, aroused silence. He... didn't know what to say. 

He didn't need to, thank god, as Clay made the next move of grabbing his cock through his jeans. Right, that. 

“My turn,” was all that Clay said as he pushed the other man back, encouraging him to sit as he worked at his jeans. Desmond didn't say anything until his dick was out. 

“Hey, uh... n-no teeth, don't bite, please.”

Clay snorted, “I wasn't planning on it.” Thank god. 

His movements were much more sloppy, literally and figuratively. Rarely taking it into his mouth, he was more focused on licking and stroking. Including one particularly vulgar moment when he tucked his tongue into the foreskin and caressed the head _from the inside._

 _**Fuck,**_ that was _warped_ and it made his toes curl. 

He started getting frustrated when it seemed like Clay wasn't even trying to get him off, just slicking him up with another mouthful of spit. It was disgusting, so much he could feel it sticking in his pubes and dripping down his balls. 

“W... what are you doing?” he asked, a little annoyed. 

“Prepping,” Clay stated plainly. At the confused look, he clarified, “For you to fuck me.” 

Oh. _Oh._

Clay grinned at the dawning realization on his face. “It's for your sake, more than mine,” he squeezed the head in his fist, enjoying the visible tremor it sent through Desmond. Then, he got an awful idea. A wonderfully awful idea, Desmond could see it in his expression. 

“Of course...” he began, smirking up at Desmond's concerned look, “If that grosses you out, I know another way we could lube you up...” 

Before he could protest, Clay had pressed the open wound on his right wrist to the side of Desmond's cock. They both moaned from it; from the sting (Clay), and from the perverse, disgusting pleasure (Desmond). The slit seemed to hug the length of his cock perfectly, still so hot and _fuck_ he could feel it _move_ when Clay flexed his hand, could practically feel his _pulse—_

“ _Fuck—_ ” he hissed, the closest he could do to warning. Clay picked up on it, and removed himself completely, leaving Desmond panting, hard, and uncomfortably wet. Even after seeing what happened, he was still startled by the sight of blood on his cock. 

“You're not done until you fuck me,” Clay told him pretty definitively. 

Desmond just nodded dumbly. “I... I can do that.” 

Clay ended up on his hands and knees, Desmond behind him gently grinding, not penetrating yet. One hand worked at Clay's cock, slowly hardening again, still incredibly sensitive. While the other... 

“No—! Don't...” That was the first time he'd ever heard that from Clay, it was kind of surprising. Especially considering that it was simply over fingering him. 

“Clay, it's gonna hurt if I don't...” Desmond trailed off as he realized what he was saying. Oh yeah. He heard Clay stifle a giggle in his hand. For some reason, that got under his skin. On impulse he found himself striking Clay, a sharp smack on the ass that echoed in the emptiness of the Animus, matched only by the sound it drew from him after. A long, deliciously loud, pleased moan. 

That made him wonder...

“Clay...” Desmond drew his attention, leaning over him and continuing to grind against him in the meantime. “I need to know... is there anything you don't like? Anything you don't want me to do?” 

That got him a laugh and a scoff. “You're asking this _now?_ ” A pause. “...No, there's nothing.”

“Is there anything that's too far, though? I have an idea... but I don't want to hurt you.” 

“Des—this isn't real.” Much as it felt like it was. “No, there's nothing like that either. _Do it._ ”

Before doing anything else, he lined himself up, pressing the tip of his cock against Clay's ass until the head popped through. It left Clay keening from the ache and burn, but he couldn't enjoy it long—

Desmond ran his hands down Clay's arms, until their hands rested on top of each other, then triggered the hidden blade again. It shot out into Clay's left hand, piercing through it and out his palm. 

He screamed, throwing his head back and arching up beautifully. In the same breath Desmond pressed further into him, burying himself up to the root. 

“ _Fuck...!_ Yes, please, fuck—fuck me, _Desmond,_ please!” 

“God _dammit,_ Clay...” Desmond grunted. He reached to remove the bracer from his wrist, struggling slightly with unclasping the fastenings with one hand. When it was off, he drew the blade back from where it pinned Clay's hand just enough, and slammed it back down, hard. Hard enough to pin him to the stone slab underneath them. 

Clay moaned weakly, attempting to flex shaky fingers through the injury and not accomplishing much. His whole body was shaking, it would have been concerning... had Desmond not reached down, out of curiosity, to stroke his cock. He was leaking an obscene amount, thick solid strands that never broke until it was pooling underneath him, his cock twitching at the slightest touch. Fuck, he really was into this. And Desmond was into how much he was into it. 

With both hands Desmond grabbed onto him, pulling back suddenly and driving in hard and fast. He set a pace, starting quick and going hard, every thrust drawing a cry from Clay. The sound of skin on skin was obscene and nearly drowned out by everything else. The rhythm only faltered when he pulled out, just enough to slick them up with spit again. Usually on his cock, sometimes down the cleft of his ass, sometimes when he pulled out completely to watch as it dripped lazily into his gaping hole. 

God, it was filthy and disgusting and so, _so_ good. 

It was during one of those pauses that he leaned in again. “Y'like that?” his voice was rough and his speech slurred...

“ _ **Yes...**_ ” ..,but not nearly as much as Clay's. “ _So_ good, fuck, please—m... more, I love it, I _need_ it...!”

“ _Jesus Christ, Clay_...” 

He slammed back in, and this time he didn't stop. Fuck, it was exhausting, the burn settling into his thighs as he pounded into him like a fucking jackhammer. Clay was still supporting himself on one arm, and not the one that had a blade through it. Either he was unable or just unwilling to finish himself off, so he really was relying on Desmond to make him cum. Shouldn't be that hard—now the only matter was what would give out first: Clay's dick or Desmond's legs. 

“Oh fuck, _just like that,_ don't stop— _don't stop don't stop_ —” a sharp inhale and a gasp, and—

Everything froze. Literally. Like the Animus was lagging. It was... kind of terrifying. 

Then it all came crashing down, motion returning to the world, sensations flooding in all at once. Clay's cries, the tightness of him clenching around him, the heat, the shades of blue in their surroundings, the smell of blood and cum and sex—

When it finally hit, it was so intense it felt like his brains had been blown out the back of his skull. He was certain part of him melted, the heat in his lower half almost unbearable. His vision blurred, going black around the edges, feeling lightheaded, jesus christ he was going to pass out—

He collapsed on top of Clay, right before everything faded away. 

-

He couldn't have been out that long, because everything was still a mess when he came to. He was splayed out on the slab, lying right next to Clay, both of them lying on their backs. 

“Clay?”

He tilted his head to look at him with a slight hum, eyes glassy and distant. 

“You're... crying,” he cautiously lifted a hand to his cheek, wiping away the streaks left by his tears. A sickening pang struck him. “I didn't... was that too much?” 

Clay smiled, “No. Not at all. They're _good_ tears, Des.” 

That was a relief. Although... “Are you gonna be okay?” A confused look. “I mean... you... Clay, you're covered in blood.” 

He snorted. “And? I can fix myself up whenever I want, if that's what you're worried about. I just don't _want_ to.” 

_Fair enough._

“But... it was good, though, right?” Damn him and his thing for pillowtalk. 

That made him laugh. “Yeah, it was... I mean, did you feel it too?” 

Whatever 'it' was went unsaid, but he definitely felt something. 

“I think...” Clay continued, pausing to laugh, “I think I freaked the Animus out—it mixed my brain with yours, so I think you felt... what I was feeling... and what _you_ were feeling, and the other way around.”

“That... that explains it.” Why it was so goddamn intense that it made him black out. 

“I wanted to feel something, and... I definitely succeeded,” he rolled to his side, propped upright on his injured hand, “and it's because of you. _Thank you,_ Desmond.” 

Desmond didn't reply, just smiled and leaned up to pull Clay into a kiss, tender and sweet, made all the nicer by the surprised noise that left Clay when he did. 

He didn't know how long they were like that, nor how long they laid together in silence afterwards. Their hands intertwined, staring at the pattern-less haze above them, the Animus' sky. He could have fallen asleep to the gentle sound of crashing waves, were it not for Clay's giggling pulling him out of it. 

“What is it?” he asked, dreading the answer. 

“Can I tell you something?” Clay leaned in, flashing that same unhinged, delighted grin. Desmond nodded. 

“You've been hearing those voices overhead, right? Shaun and Rebecca and your dad?” Oh god. “What you just experienced was basically akin to a wet dream. So... you're gonna have quite the mess to clean up when you get back to your body.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Clay's mad cackling was the last thing he heard before he glitched away. 

\---

“...So are we just not gonna talk about that?”

“Talk about what?” Rebecca pretended to busy herself with all the nothing on the Animus screen.

“Oh, I don't know, Becs, maybe the fact that we had to sit here and watch Desmond fucking cum in his pants.” 

She was blushing pink and he burning red, both at the memory of the _sounds_ he had been making and the subtle thrashing in his seat as he came. “What's there to talk about? It happened.”

“Thank Christ it didn't happen when Bill was here...” Shaun muttered. As if on cue...

“How is he?” 

Shaun cleared his throat awkwardly, Rebecca facing away from them both. “Good, good, little bit of activity, but he's fine.” 

“What kind of activity?” William leaned in closer, checking the screen and examining his vitals. “His pulse was up, did anything happen?”

“I, uh... I think he's still got some versatility in there,” Rebecca offered, “So it's probably just from reliving some memories.” 

“Hmm.” He considered it, then nodded. “Alright. Keep me posted.”

They spared him a nod and he was off once again, leaving the two of them alone in awkward silence. Something about what they witnessed felt like the kind of thing they'd end up taking to their grave, like a dark secret to share with no one, not even Desmond. 

“...Shaun?”

“...Yeah?”

“Your boner's showing.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary are from a song: ["Song For A Guilty Sadist" by Crywank.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S_VQ7h_2UAw)
> 
> ~~is2g even when the fic isnt ABOUT shaun, he still ends up the buttmonkey, gdi~~


End file.
